Ode to My Teacher

My best teacher had it right; Love first, then take attendance.

I saw the girl with holes in the soles of her shoes. So did my teacher.

I saw the boy with a bruised cheek.  So did my teacher.

I saw the bus-driver with the jar of Rolaids. So did my teacher.

I saw the coach with the bloodshot eyes. So did my teacher.

I saw the janitor cleaning toilets, not looking me in the eye.  So did my teacher.

I saw the lunch lady’s rosary clutched in her hand. So did my teacher.

I saw the administrator’s cuffs worn thin on their best suit.  So did my teacher.

I saw my teacher’s best gift for each student; and I am reminded...

Love first, then take attendance.

My Response to Psalm 112:10

For there was kindness and you responded with anger.
There was grace and generosity and your eyes were filled with revenge and pain.
Silence stood with a firm heart of peace and you gathered rocks and called together a mob.
Praise to God was offered, and yet you mocked.
Once again, I hold out a humble hand.

Speak of Holy Week

We speak of Holy Week, and a coal train flies by with empty cars returning to be refilled and sent off once again.

We speak of Holy Week, and we pause with a nod or a wince, with an attempt to say more than just words printed on a page.

We speak of Holy Week, and we slowly sigh, taking pause to refocus on days beyond weariness.

We speak of Holy Week, and our arms are filled with commentaries and word studies, which carry the potential to separate us from the very thing of it.

We speak of Holy Week, and trust a sleeping world hears and acknowledges the sacrifice.

We speak of Holy Week, and find a voice, our voice, alone in the wilderness.

We speak of Holy Week, and the newness of life enters, uninvited, unfocused, unsought; the noise finds a target.

We speak of Holy Week, God bless all those who speak; of Holy Week.

When Winter Arrives

When winter arrives we will better know the long warm days of summer. 

When winter arrives we will fall together and remember stories of times we shared a meal; shared more than a meal.

When winter arrives we will see ourselves; we will pause to look to one another.

When winter arrives we will count the seeds of spring. 
We will separate the wheat from the chaff, allowing potentials and possibilities to rise high in the sky like embers seeking shelter among the stars. 

When winter arrives we will, someday when winter arrives.

I am Iowa

I am Iowa; fertile and productive.

I am strings of corn rows bending over contoured hills etched by water flowing from known to unknown.

I am soil, deep and active; sticky in March and dusty in August.  I am a rock in Winter.

I am rivers with sand bars and muddy bottoms, with all sorts of growing things.

I am the stars and moon to light the path.  I am the ruddy morning, bright noon-day, and the purple violet evening sky.  

I am Iowa; a birth place, a resting place, a living place.

"New for Easter"

New!

I am thinking: What do I really know about New?

I know the Smell of New.

New plastic swimming pool,

New leather boots,

New hay stacked in a barn.

I know the Feel of New

New haircut on a Saturday night,

New dollar bill, stiff and crisp,

New skin over an old scar.

I know the Look of New

New moon in the sky,

New car in the showroom,

New tooth just breaking the skin.

I know the Sound of New.

New calf’s First gargling breath,

New guitar strings stretching into tune,

New gravel on the road home.

Maybe new is not really altogether new.  Not always.

Maybe new is new for today, new only to us, or new for just a season.

Maybe why something is new is more important than how.

What do I really know about New?

Maybe, Easter.

A Good Friday

I scratch me head.  I ponder the sight.

I lower me chin.  I kick dirt for spite. 

Thou speak without words; like clouds in the wind.

And I feel me pain, while I suffer thy death.

Brother, my brother, what purpose this.

And I scratch me head.  I lower me chin.

Christmas Story

A story of shepherds and angels, and yet,

Ours is a vision of shoppers and strangers.

A story historically inaccurate, and yet,

This is day which annually makes history.

A story painful beyond expectation, and yet,

The pain is where we really connect.

A story of loneliness and fear, and yet,

It is best embodied within community with great joy.

A story more misunderstood everyday, and yet,

It still offers truth, even to children.

A story about less, and yet,

It is always a story of more.

May you find more this Christmas.

Enough

Within the sacred text
We scour to find grain.
The potential for life, sustained, renewed.
And we find grass and weeds
Enough to choke an ox.

We seek the seed to plant
So the harvest comes full.
Our anger rises
As we find only fodder
And it still green and growing.
Where is the grain;
Enough to serve and plant?

Finally we lay our bodies in the dewy carpet
Exhausted from the empty search.

Perhaps only then shall we find
The grain is in the head
The head is on the grass
The grass is at our hand.
Enough to fill a dream.

All is well, all is well.

- D. A. Weesner

The Light Has Passed

The light has passsed
into the night of tomorrow
into the fragrance of flowers
into the day of dreams
without a smile or good word
for the light has a mission
to return another day.

The light has passed
I gave my time away
even in the darkness now
I never will forget
for my eyes betray my steps.

The light has passed
with the first snowfall
The light has passed
on a cold November evening
to return at winter's ending.

-D.A. Weesner

Oddly Betrayed

Isn’t this what the people wanted
all hope and truth and revelation?
Yet the longer the gift becomes given
the receptions grows less than warm.

Seems the arrival of something new and unexpected,
something long hoped for,
more than we have prayed, longed,
wanted for our children or neighbors
has led to disillusionment, unsettled lives,
and a feeling of broken trusts.

Is it always like this?
It is always like this!

The gift, more than our wildest,
presents us with more issues, reveals our humanness.
We stumble under the weight,
it is too much for us,
we are not worthy,
we are not ready
we are just not.

Strange the response …

We feel oddly betrayed
the Giver feels oddly betrayed
the Gift is oddly betrayed.

- D.A. Weesner

Unclaimed Grace

To know not and
Be out for
More than self
Is to find
The prize most valued.

In humbleness be
Yet without the need to hold
Is the wealth
Of kings and pirates.

Folly the struggle
Lost between reason and wisdom
While unclaimed
Sighs the grace
Of love and sacrifice.

- D. A. Weesner

Thoughts of Christmas 2005

The wee hand
reaches upward touching
the face of one
who has waited.

The smile,
at first hidden by
those questioning eyes,
finds a humble subject;
as a King might
discover those who
live to serve.

Spring approaches and
tears water barren fields,
sure to profit those
who wait.

Of all the days
offered and accepted,
this day is
best.

Of all the days;
this day has
meaning.

The sun,
the child,
the kiss.

- D.A. Weesner